


Soulmate AU Fic

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, soulmate fic - Fandom
Genre: BBC is a destroyer of souls, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, probable mystrade, soulmate fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:38:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1253176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a special someone. That's a fact. Before new innovative technology there was a chance you would never find that person. A chance that you would wander through life trying to find that person with whom you must spend your life.<br/>One day years ago Aiden Thomas created a way to find your true love. He made a formula which if administered at birth made the name of your true love, your soulmate, appear on your wrist. Although this way was not perfect it helped a lot. More and more people began to be happier with their marriages.<br/>But this story isn't about those people it's about a specific two. This story is about John and Sherlock and the names upon their wrists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I know it probably won't be the best, or the only one out there. BUT I saw the suggestion on my tumblr dash and I CALLED IT. If you want proof scroll through amazinglily.tumblr.com

John woke up sweating, he had had another dream. Although the dreams were not as bad as they had been before he had came to 221 B. They were still god awful dreams.  
Sometimes they reflected upon his days in the army other days they reflected upon Sherlock dead or dying Everyone has a special someone. That's a fact. Before new innovative technology there was a chance you would never find that person. A chance that you would wander through life trying to find that person with whom you must spend your life. One day years ago Aiden Thomas created a way to find your true love. He made a formula which if administered at birth made the name of your true love, your soulmate, appear on your wrist. Although this way was not perfect it helped a lot. it being John's fault.  
Sighing John got up out of bed, pushing the cream coloured covers off of himself. He needed to shower, but only after he ate. He told himself. Some jam and toast would do him a hell of a lot of good he decided.  
Sherlock was already in the sitting room in his chair fingers steepled together touching his Cupid's bow lips. The sun shone brightly through the window and made his normally dark brown curls light and caramel coloured. His pale porcelain doll skin seemed to glow and it looked healthier than normal.  
Seeing Sherlock alive and OK made John's heart swell enough as it was. But days like this when he looked so peaceful and at ease, made John's stomach do flip flops in his chest.  
In the kitchen he pushed up his sleeves, although he regretted it the instant he did. The name inscribed upon his wrist was not Sherlock. It was William.


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Sherlock. Woo

Sherlock was lost in thought but not so far gone as to not notice as John walked into the room. He noted the semi lengthy pause as the ex army doctor walked through the sitting room. He could only guess that the man was studying him again, to make sure he was alright and not on drugs- again.   
Which he wasn't no not really. He had John and that was enough for him. He didn't need the drugs. The name on his wrist was John. And he could only presume that John's wrist said his name on it. But he had never seen his doctor's wrist.   
John always was careful to have it covered with a wristwatch, or the sleeve of his shirt. Come to think of it John never wore short sleeve t-shirts.   
This could be a number of things though. He could have scars from self inflicted injuries. But this Sherlock doubted. From what he had deduced John had never even considered such a thing. He would never take the so called "cowards way out."   
He could hear John bustling around the kitchen making his normal meal for breakfast, jam and toast. It was the same thing everyday except for special occasions. Then he added an egg.   
It was, he supposed, an orderly thing. John seemed to have a need for a routine of sorts. Most likely enhanced by his years in the army.   
"Sherlock?" Came John's voice out of the kitchen.   
"Yes. What is it?" Sherlock asked impatiently.   
"You put fingers in my jam." John snarled.   
"Oh yeah didn't I tell you?" Sherlock said absentmindedly picking at his armchair.   
"No. But it would have been nice to know when I went to the store yesterday. So I could get some more bloody jam!" John exploded.   
"I don't really see what the fuss is about. Just go down to Mrs. Hudson and borrow her jam." Sherlock sighed.   
"But it's not just the jam is it though! You've put heads and toes and spleens in the fridge. And those intestines you had in the fridge last week! It's not even close to safe for us to eat the stuff in the fridge. We could die or something!" John said reiterating the same argument he always had against body parts in the fridge.   
"I've cleaned them," Sherlock said rolling his eyes.   
John shot him a withering glare.   
"Oh alright I have washed MOST of them." He conceded.   
John huffed, "I'm going to get some jam."   
He strode across the room to the door. He paused a second glancing again at Sherlock, who had just gone back to his thinking position. Sighing he opened the door and strode out.   
Closing it behind him he stood for a second.   
Whomever this William was there was no way he could be better than Sherlock. Because Sherlock for all his flaws was perfect as he was. So John decided then that no matter what his wrist said Sherlock was the one he loved.   
John smiled to himself for walking down to the flight of stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat.


	3. Three

CHAPTER THREE  
*SKIPPING TO RECHINBACH BC IM LAZY AND THE GOOD STUFF IS AFTER THIS.*   
John was rushing back home alone because Sherlock bloody Holmes wasn't coming with him. Mrs. Hudson, the sweet old dear, was hurt and he didn't have time to come help her.   
John was starting to think that Sherlock was bipolar about helping people. He'd seen Sherlock nearly kill a man over hurting her. He'd thrown him out of the window for christ sakes. But now when the poor woman was hurt and alone. John shook his head getting out of the cab and throwing the cash to the driver before running up to the building and opening the door.   
Only inside there was Mrs. Hudson smiling and standing upright unharmed, looking on as the huge neighbour from next door, the bald assassin, was screwing in a lightbulb.   
He felt a rush of relief followed by an immediate sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.   
Thinking back Sherlock's behaviour had been strange. Sending him to 221 B alone with Moriarty out on the loose. No. He couldn't be thinking of.   
John circled back around and out the door running up the street to the nearest cab cutting off an elderly woman in the process.   
"SAINT BARTS NOW!" John yelled getting in and slamming the door.   
\-----------------------  
Jim Moriarty was standing on the roof triumphantly. He had finally won. And although that made him nearly whoop with glee, there was a sadness there. The only person who had ever presented a challenge to him was about to die.   
But no he had to pay attention Sherlock, ordinary Sherlock was talking.   
"You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?" He sneered.   
Sherlock Holmes was standing on the roof watching James Moriarty hoping for a way to get out of the situation safely. To go back to John and explain to him what he needed to. But now he had to focus. Not think on such petty things as feelings.   
And so Sherlock replied, "Yes. So do you."  
Moriarty laughed, "Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."  
Sherlock nearly smiled at this, "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."  
Jim was nearly scared now. Could he be serious?  
When he spoke it was nearly convincing enough for him to believe. "Nah — you talk big. Nah... you're ordinary. You're ordinary — you're on the side of the angels."  
"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels... but don't think for one second that I am one of them." Sherlock snarled.   
\---John; in the cab---  
The slowness of London traffic bothered him enough as it was on a normal day. But now when it was the only thing standing between him and his best friend-no scratch that, the love of his life. It drove him very nearly insane.   
Looking at the name of the street he was on he was still a good three blocks away from his destination. This made him feel a bit better but not much.   
He sighed and tried not to be to antsy.   
\---------  
John slammed the car door at the same time his phone rang.   
Immeaditly he grabbed for it and put it up to his ear. He could hear Sherlock's voice but he could barely register what was going on.   
Sherlock sighed, "I'm a fake."  
John tried I prevent him for saying anymore, "Sherlock..."  
Sherlock just pushed on, "The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly; in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you... that I invented Moriarty for my own purposes."  
John's heart broke on the inside, "Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met - the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"  
"Nobody could be that clever." Sherlock said.   
John frowned, "You could."  
Sherlock knew he was speaking and that John was replying. But he could not even register the words either of them spoke. There was but one thing on his mind. And he just needed to know.   
"John! I need to know this one thing, and I need you to answer me truthfully. Got it?" Sherlock demanded.   
"Yes. I get it. Now what do you need to know?" He replied.   
"What is the name on your wrist?" Sherlock asked.   
"It's William." John's voice broke.   
Sherlock couldn't help but smile softly as he hung up the phone and jumped off the roof, to save the one man who mattered.   
\------------------  
John Watson was standing at his best friends grave, no longer the happy and whole person he had once been.   
Currently he was giving his friend, or rather his friends headstone a piece of mind.   
"You... you told me once... that you weren't a hero. Umm... There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so... there. I was so alone... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be...dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.."  
And just a few feet away Sherlock Holmes stood. His eyes filled with tears as he watched his best friend break all over again.   
He slowly turned around walking away. The hunt for the would be assassins begun anew


	4. FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John is recuperating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's short and took a while. Mostly filler while I plan ahead.

CHAPTER FOUR  
John was a broken man. And it seemed that there was no fixing him. In his mind there was no point since Sherlock was gone.   
Oh how he wished he wasn't. But all his wishing did not change the fact of the mans death. There was nothing he could do now but work at the hospital.  
That's all he did, work. Barely ate, rarely slept, didn't talk to most people.   
At first he stayed in 221 B. But reminders of Sherlock were painful. Too painful. He left, found an inexpensive cheap place in the slums of the city.   
When he did eat it was always at Angelo's. There he was fine. The memories not so harsh. Not so violently there. They were fainter. Quiet, almost non-exsistent. He liked Angelo's.   
John's dreams however were the reason he didn't like sleeping much anymore. All he could see was Sherlock falling, every time he closed his eyes to go to sleep. Most of the time he didn't sleep voluntarily. He'd pass out, anywhere from the table at Angelo's to his own dingy kitchen.   
The people he did talk to were his patients and the new cashier at Angelo's. She was a pretty blonde girl about his age maybe a little a younger. Her name? Mary Morstan. To him she was the happiest thing in his life. The one thing he REALLY looked forward to anymore.   
She was always smiling, no matter the circumstances. A bright ray of sunshine despite her sad past. Orphaned, friendless for the longest time. There was really nothing for her to smile about. And yet she did. She was such a strong person   
And perhaps that is why John was attracted to her. Although her normalcy played a big part. In fact Mary was why John started to live again.   
Started to be happy. Lively. Him again.   
Mary was who brought him out of the hole he had been in. His own personal hell. Had been his saving grace.   
Perhaps that's why he fell in love with two people.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock wants to go see John, but cannot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry about it taking so long but I have had a long bout of writers block, please forgive me.

            Chapter Five

   

   Sherlock was in London once again. He had only just hunted down and disposed of two of three assassins. He still had one to deal with, and then the rest of James Moriarty's crime web. To most it was a daunting task, something they would find nearly impossible. But for Sherlock it was merely slightly difficult. Of course his brother, Mycroft Holmes, was helping him. At least with finding them. Mycroft was not one for ground work.

 

   At this precise moment though Sherlock only wanted to back with John and his violin in 221B. He knew that it was irrational, that John had moved on. (According to Mycroft her name was Mary Morstan, and they had been spending quite a lot of time together.) He also knew going back could put John in quite a bit of danger. That alone was something he could not bear. But he still wished incessantly to tell him that he was alive, to drop subtle hints. So as to prevent the man's sadness from being there any longer. This though was also not advisable as Moriarty's web was still alive and thriving, even without the consulting criminal himself.

 

   Sherlock was quite surprised at the pangs of longing he'd felt for John upon his arrival in London. Having thought himself used to being away from the doctor. But as soon as Mycroft's private jet had landed, they hit him all the harder. Everything seemed to remind him of the man. He now wore a watch over the name on his wrist, just so he wouldn't stare at it for hours on end. Although occasionally he thought it was throbbing slightly, as if it knew when he was thinking about John.

 

   He vaguely wondered what was taking Mycroft so long upstairs, the doorbell had rung over a half an hour ago. And so began to draw conjectures as to whom it may be. But after two guesses he really began to wonder, so much so that he decided that he had to go see.

 

  Sherlock crept up the stairs of Mycroft's home, inching his way to the foyer. He could hear his brother's voice rising and falling, he sounded relaxed and happy. There was another voice as well, a very familiar one at that. It was not John he knew that much, the voice was both deeper and less precise. It had to be Lestrade. He inched closer to hear what they were saying.

 

  "So dinner tomorrow then?" Lestrade was saying.

 

  "Yes, of course." Mycroft replied, there was something is his voice that Sherlock knew all to well. And he heard the same in Lestrade's as well.

 

  "I will see you later then," came the silver haired man's voice he sounded slightly nervous.

 

   At that point Sherlock slipped back down the stairs, not wanting to intrude upon the conversation any longer. His head was spinning. He had never actually seen the name on his brother's wrist, or the name that adorned Lestrade's. But he could only draw from the way they were talking together, how their voices sounded, that it was indeed a soul mate connection. He couldn't help but feel a little jealous however. His brother got to see the man he loved whenever he wanted, talk to him, be with him.

 

  Sherlock could not. He could not see John every day, talk to him about anything and everything. He had to hear about he had moved on, replaced him with a china doll of a woman. The wound healing more and more everyday as time went on. Leaving him behind, a mere echo of John's past.

 

 

  He could not bear it any longer. The dams broke, and tears flooded Sherlock's eyes. He cried for John, the love he felt for the man, the sadness of him loving another.

 

 It was a long time before he could stop the tears from falling down his face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya so I hope you all enjoyed the long overdue chapter.


	6. SIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which its Moriarty's eyes we see through. Also Moran's, because why not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also sorry if the formatting for the sentences isn't double spaced. But it looked funny when i put it up on Preview.

James Moriarty

 

           Oh yes James Moriarty was alive, he could not stand to die in such an un-artistic way as that. No he was to die a splendid death, full of mystery and triumph. After all his name, Moriarty, meant to die was an art. He knew that Sherlock Holmes was alive, a detail that big would not escape him. Though he made no move to kill Doctor John Watson, because Sherlock being alive meant that he was not as  _ordinary_ as he had thought. It also meant that Moriarty could relieve his boredom again, temporarily. 

 

          Although being confined to the house in which his sniper resided was not the his idea of charmingly interesting in any way shape or form. No, but Sebastian Moran insisted, and who was he to deny the man that comfort? In any case Moriarty knew he was right he could not leave the house unless heavily disguised, which was always a hassle. It was better to stay indoors and await the long hours for Moran to return. In that time he would do what his job dictated, kill people with his well trained eyes and lack of care fortheir families and loved ones. 

 

     Perhaps, Moriarty mused, he does care that he kills people and he only does it because that's all he knows? Possibly because it is demanded of him? Not that anyone knows his actual name. _Cobra_ is what they call him. A snake. That has absolutely nothing to do with shooting. And with the thought of a monstrous cobra with the face of Moran holding a gun, Jim Moriarty fell into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, that most likely made it sound as if he was an escapee from an insane asylum. 

 

    But Moriarty could never actually guess the real reason Moran did what he did, because he never quite understood the matters concerning ones heart.

 

Sebastian Moran

     

 

     He was sitting as still as a tiger stalking its prey. Watching, waiting, the shot had to be perfect. If not his name would be ruined and James Moriarty would undoubtedly find a new sniper one with better skills than he. Not that, that was hard to do, in his mind at least. 

 

  Moran might find that Moriarty, James as he so much liked to call him, would never replace him because he did not like it when he was away. If asked if this was true James would most likely say; 

     "He makes damn good waffles. I am not giving that up."

 

  But neither would readily admit to the names on their wrists. No, they were boneheaded.

 

  Moran sighed when his target came into view, his heart clenched when he looked through his scope. She was pregnant, belly swollen to the size of a watermelon. He took a deep breath as if to steady himself to pull the trigger, and then proceeded to pack his gun up and put it away. He might be a killer, but he would  _never_ kill a woman with an unborn child. Not after what had happened last time. The woman would live, or at the very least not be killed by his hand. 

 

  Hopefully the client accepted his refund without a fight because Moran was already fuming at him, and would not hesitate to kill him. 

 

  But as he closed his case his eyes fell upon the name emblazoned upon his wrist, _James._

  

   

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's rather short but it's just to get it started y'know. I will update ASAP promise. But school and probable future groundings suck so I dunno how fast the update is going to be.


End file.
